The Count Down
by KayMoon24
Summary: Bruce doesn't talk about his past, and with good reason. But the memories come. He can run. He can hide. He can repress. But they're there. Waiting. Leading him, his entire life, up to this moment. To his home. With The Avengers. Character study Bruce Banner. Contains: past, present, future/and relationship with Elizabeth "Betty" Ross/ interactions with Avengers, of course.
1. The Fifth Accident

**AN:** Alright, so lemme give this a try. Inspired by my wifey **Titainsgirl1234** amazing short-short stories. Installments of bits of Bruce's memories, past, present, future, that lead up to The Avengers, and after it. I've done a TON of research for this, and am SUPER exited to introduce you guys, be you know them or not, to the characters that we'll hopefully see for when Banner gets his own fancy movie (beyond 2008's Norton version. Because, really guys, just. No. I appreciated the movie, I did. but I do not care for Norton's characterization of Banner, and I can't help but be in love with Ruffalo's more weary, nervous, self tension version.)

**Warning:** For those of you who may or may not know...Bruce's past is dark. His childhood is dark, and, frankly, his whole life is a tragedy that could rival Spidey's. So, I'll do my best to have "sweet" moments for him, but, mostly, this is going to be an suspenseful ride.

Memories come in different installments, but, if you pay attention, you may find that anything links together in more ways than one...

**Summary:** Bruce doesn't know what happened. It's only the fifth time- and he's in the dark. Literally. But there's someone calling to him...someone fimilar ...

* * *

"Bruce?! _Bruce!" _Her voice echoes deeply down the well of his subconscious. He wants his eyes to open, begging them to open, but he doesn't have the strength—it's all out of him now. It's gone. All of its gone. He shakes his head, his mouth opening, but there isn't any noise.

"Bruce?!" Her footsteps that match the thudding of his heart as she reaches him. Finally, laying on the damp sewer ground for so long, there's something warm moving across him that isn't furry. Hands are pulling at his clothing—or what's left of it. It seems selfish, but all Bruce wishes now is to at least have enough trousers to cover what she's already seen.

"Betty," His voice is so hoarse that he has to _breathe _her name to get it audible. Instantly, he wants to touch her, wrap his arms around her, but he stops as he reaches out, something is pushing through his chest, and he can't tell if that's just his heart exploding up, into his spine, rocketing out of his throat- the broadness of his body is terrifying, so engulfing, so suddenly alarming that he slams his hands back into the gritty gravel beneath him. He instantly cringes—not from the texture, but for Betty, because as his eyes slowly scan her, he can tell that she's too shocked to notice that he's just caused four inch cracks in cement.

She's standing over him, the sprig of light reaching from an open manhole is just squarely drifting over her shoulder, lighting up the rips in her clothes—there's a large tear in the thigh of her jean, cuts across the narrow draw of her chin, the worry lines across her forehead are screwed up into a hundred different patterns. Her hair is a fury of wind and rain, crusted over and melted to her, creating V lines over her once pretty soft neck.

Animated as ever, Bruce doesn't need to see her arms to know that she's waving them above, emphasizing the every direction her words are flying, pouring out of her. "I—I just…I saw that…that thing…co-come through your building—and no one could find you, but I tracked your cellphone…I just…" Her voice is a constantly highpitch, warbling over the word '_thing_', and then she's on her knees, reaching back for him. "The S.W.A.T. team keeps telling us that this is a _terrorist_ attack, but I_ saw_ something, Bruce. I saw…I don't know _what _I saw…" Her voice cracks, breaking down.

Suddenly she's alert, moving across Bruce so quickly that it's making the blackness above him spin again—the light she was blocking hits him hard in the face and he groans.

"Bruce—is…is it…gone? Did…it just…disappear?" Her voice is a dry brittle whisper, like fall of the orange leaves outside, littering the ground as they drop onto the glass of three smashed buildings, fourteen torn cars, whipping along the red backs of firetrucks, racing to the crime scene just above them.

"Why did it want _you?"_ Her voice is a pleading cry as she leans into the crook of Bruce's neck, her fingers digging into his sides protectively, as if she could stop it from ever happening again. "_Why _does this happen, Bruce?"

With a shudder that rocks his chest, it hits him.

Oh God. _Thank God.  
_  
Bruce softens, letting Betty sink into him, smelling like burning of gasoline, sweat, dirt, the rust of blood, and the tears that instantly dye his shirt a darker colour than the navy blue is already is. Wet blackness leaks across his chest, and Bruce thinks that for one second in his life, everything would be okay. Because she's here.

And she doesn't know.

Not yet.


	2. Parents

**AN: **Thank you for enjoying for all who have favourited, followed, and reviewed. I promise, they're going to stay short, but this one…well. This one just deserves to be written out, and written out more.

**Summary: **He never was sure what terrified him more as a child; when his mom fought back against his father, or when she didn't.

* * *

There are sometimes, shady times, long ago in Bruce's childhood memories, that he can picture her, but it's hard—he has to focus, strain until he's temples throb around her image—soft, defeated, and always red.

In all his brilliance, his adult brain still couldn't conquer the gift of photographic memory. Not for actually memories, anyway. But, seeing and remembering with his eyes never really helped him in his adult life either considering his glasses, so he doesn't bother to conjure a shard of a dream with his eyes. He uses his thoughts. And the phrase for his childhood always begins like this:

He never was sure what terrified him more as a child, when his mom fought back against his father, or when she didn't. His earliest images of his father were so demure back then as well, so fragile and simple. He was a slender man, but had rather uncannily muscular tension in the shoulders—a family resemblance that, when Bruce hit puberty, he resented instantaneously. He had dark, bleak, watery blue eyes, like winter ice succumbing to an internal fire in his brain. To five year old Bruce, he summed up the ravings of his father, the unpleasant smell and the loud, coarse voice to that of a monster from a storybook. He was Dracula. He was The Grinch. He was every Disney villain, and every terrible dream he could manage to think if he tried his very hardest.

But he was still his father.

The first time Bruce's father ever laid hands on him was the night before kindergarten. Bruce was gifted even as such a young age, and was easily ready for the class, but his mother insisted that he got to bed just like any other good little boy. She had done a lot with him today to try to wear him out—she even got him a new haircut and a plastic toy robot—but nothing seemed to do. That night Bruce crossed his arms, pouted and tried to think of something to throw a fit over, but he couldn't, so he just stood there in his over-large shirt from stolen from his father's dresser with a hole in the pocket, and one missing sock, on that cold kitchen floor.

His mother smiled expectantly, and leaned down nose to nose with her son.

"We talked about this, Bruce." She reached to mess with his hair. "No being stubborn,"

"But—"

"Robert," She chided, and Bruce startled at the use of his real name.

"—Not sleepy," Bruce murmured in retaliation to her using it, sniffing.

His mother gasped, a hand clasping dramatically to her lips. "Not _sleepy?! _Well then, that just changes everything!"

Bruce smiled, eyeing her carefully, curious to what she meant. He had a feeling it meant something good.

She bent her knees, the smooth fabric of her skirt nestling against Bruce's legs as she got on eyelevel with him. Bruce tucked his chin, feeling suddenly shy from the close inspection, and this made his mother smile. She was a pretty woman, with soft cheek bones in a tiny face, with dark, warm eyes like coffee. Her hair was always a little frizzy and discoloured from black to brownish style, like she always forgot to dye it all the way.

She tucked a finger under his chin, causing Bruce to look at her. "You remember what I taught you, small one?"

Bruce wanted to roll his eyes. "To look people in the eye when they talk to you."

She smoothed her hand across his cheek and smiled again, bright with pride. "That's _right_. You have such a great memory, Bruce."

He faintly blushed at her praise. His mother eyed him with a smirk. "How about you pick out a good book, hm?"

Bruce practically hopped out of the kitchen he was so excited. Soon, he returned, tugging for his mother's attention with a fist full of her soft pale purple skirt.

Bruce shyly held up a worn copy of Robert Louis Steveson's _Treasure Island _into his mother's bright almond coloured eyes, his eyes seemly too large to contain in the thin frame of his glasses. He then ran to his bedroom, listening for her to follow. When she entered his room, he was already in bed, ready to read. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame to study him.

"Please?" He whispered, all soft curls in his hair, wide, gentle eyes neatly tucked behind glasses that were banged and nicked from his wild imaginative adventures of being a rough and tumble cowboy from last month, like in the legends he'd read about, or two weeks ago, an astronaut from _E. T.—_this week it was a pirate.

His mother gave a long exaggerated sigh, flopping down across the bed and quickly gathering up the warm little boy in her arms, holding him close. "Aren't you too young for this book, small one?"

Alarmed, Bruce shook his head roughly, tickling his mother's stomached with the movement so that she let go, and he crawled away, stunned at the possibly of not hearing a bedtime story.

"Is it because it's dad's favourite?" Bruce asked lowly, as if he too was scared to breathe any sign of his father across the threshold of the house, lest it force the man to appear. A thin shadow flickered over his mother's cheerful expression, the slightest downturn to the corner of her mouth that made a sense of confusion wrap over Bruce like a plunge into the deep end of the local pool. And he didn't know how to swim.

"How do you know it's his favourite?" His mother's hands thoughtfully swept up the dark curl of his brown hair, her tone patient but equally quiet.

"Well," Bruce began, concentrating hard. "There's a lot of stuff on the floor in your bedroom, um, like shoes and books and things but this one never is. It's on his desk, and people don't put their favourite things on the floor."

His mother's expression froze for a moment, her gaze softening and looking weirdly wet. Bruce backpedaled. He didn't like it when girls cried like the next door neighbor's daughter sometimes did. It was loud, sloppy, and made him feel so unnerved that he couldn't stop biting his nails when it happened. But at his mother crying, he was at a loss at what to feel. Mothers don't cry. Mother's in Disney movies didn't cry, and most mothers in movies only cry when bad things happened. They shouldn't cry at all. Mothers are warm and loving and full of hugs. Why would she cry? Bruce felt his lungs grow tight with worry, his thoughts swirling for reason. He soon concluded that it might be his own fault. Was _he_ making her cry? Would dad get upset with her because of _him?_

"Do—do you think he wouldn't like that? I—I didn't mean to take it," Bruce explained quickly, twisting at the hole of his father's shirt as if he caused that as well. Instantly this brought his mother back around, and she reached out to take his hands, easing out the nerves there by rubbing his arms soothingly.

"No, no, sweetheart, it's okay. It's fine. In fact, I think—I think he'd want us to read it."

Bruce's eyes brightened. Dad wasn't around much, but when he was…well, Bruce didn't think his father thought about him as much as Bruce did about his father.

"Really? But, like, can we, um, keep it a secret?" He suddenly asked, feeling a weird flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. His father's opinion was something rare that Bruce found himself conflicting to need, to want. By himself he felt okay. But sometimes when he mentioned those confusing things to mom, she get real quiet and he felt all messed up again.

She tweaked his nose to distract her fretting boy, fixing his glasses gently back into place. "Okay. It'll be our secret then. But if you get too scared..." She trailed off playfully, hugging Bruce against her.

"M' not scared of anything, mom," Bruce added briskly, mushed against his mother once more.

The two snuggled up routinely, Bruce alert and snug in the crook of his mother's arm, his head resting against her shoulder, and she held the book in front of them, dramatically reading the title page and even adding different character voices. Her voice was slow and streaming, and she even paused to touch Bruce's nose or pitch ticklingly at his arm when the moment stuck her. Bruce liked that best about her, and he always couldn't hold in a laugh when she tickled him. She also took the time to explain the larger words to him, and even the old fashioned ones like "_connoisseur_", and "_sabre_", which was a type of sword that gave the old sea dog a nasty cut on his cheek.

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest," His mother sang, her voice funnily deep "—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of—"

The slamming of the front door caused his mother's jaw to pop faintly against Bruce's ears, and he could feel the instant tense of his body against her. He felt scared in response, wanting to crawl under her and disappear. But he glanced at the cover of the book in his mother's steady hands and remembered that he wasn't scared of anything. Not loud noises, not of Long John Silver, and not of dad.

"Bruce," Her hand hovered over his stomach, "Honey, I'm going to be right back. Besides, we're almost done with chapter one and it's getting late, right?" She looked at him carefully, her eyes wide and pleasant, but her gaze held something so faintly tangible that Bruce felt his insides start to hurt at the thought of missing what it was. It was _super _important, that he knew. "So just lay down, close your eyes and I'll back in a jiffy, I promise."

"Okay," he whispered back, reaching up to rub at his eyes, and leaning against the covers. He didn't want her to leave. Already, the warmth beside him was drifting, and when she padded from his bedroom he quickly rolled over onto his side to soak it up. But she was coming right back. She promised.

Bruce laid like that for what must have been minutes, but stretched on like hours. The bright, neon blue clock beside his bed reached the big hand to 9 and the little hand to 12 at night. He thought carefully, _so that must mean that eight minutes went by_. Sixty seconds each. He smiled a small smile to himself, laying there alone in the crisp dark. He didn't know why but he liked numbers. Maybe it was because they felt orderly and safe, and he always knew what to expect next from them.

The low, slowed timbre of his father's voice was muffled by the pale blue wallpaper and Bruce's white door that led out into the living room. There was a sound of the old, over-stuffed recliner being lifted back. Silence. Then, sudden, intense yelling. Bruce froze, curled up, and grabbed the closest pillow, covering himself. He breathed in and out slowly, realizing that he could smell his mother's scent on it—spring time clean. With something that sounded like a roar a loud something smashed in the kitchen—Bruce was instantly up, a small hand around the circle golden knob of the door, before he froze again. Silence.

Slowly, a low voice was talking—almost…pleading towards the louder one. It grew louder—then the first voice grew loud until they both were screaming, so suddenly and so bitterly that Bruce took a step back, wanting to hide back in bed.

Suddenly rough footsteps were coming at his door, and Bruce could only stand there, terrified. It opened slowly, and the light from the dim hallway seemed to highlight the intimidation of his tall father, the broadness of his shoulders, and the brace of his body, heavy against the door as if he couldn't stand up correctly. Bruce gasped in surprise, stepping backwards—but his father's large hand lashed out, gripping Bruce by his hair, and jerked the child forward, practically off of his feet. The pain shocked Bruce down to his core, and despite himself trying his best, he cried out, tears swelling in his eyes and running down his throat, small hands grasping at his father's large wrists trembling out thickly, _"Stop, Daddy! Stop!"_

His father didn't seem to hear him. "You used _my_ money to buy him this shitty'a haircut—_Jesus,_ Rebecca, he's what? _Seven?_ He doesn't need a stupid haircut for goddamn _kindergarten!_"

Through the space between his father's stance, Bruce could sense his mother as she leaped towards his father, looking so small compared to him, the both of them, looking so…so defenseless. Bruce cringed away again and thankfully, his hair slipped through his father's thick, sweaty fingers. He tumbled over his own feet, tripping and landing on the carpet, before crawling backwards towards his closet, wanting to hide and play pretend in it like he did when he was even smaller—dim memoires of being very, very quiet with mommy in the closet till daddy fell asleep.

"BRIAN, DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM—" _BAM! _Something seemed to smack Bruce's mother down. Now she was on the floor like Bruce was, a hand to her cheek. Suddenly Bruce's door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the dark.

Bruce's mother's voice was low and quiet through the door, trembling, but defiant. "He's five, Brian. _Five_—if you even paid attention for a second you'd know the age of your son."

Sounding more like a monster than ever, Bruce hid under his bed at the sound of his father's voice, the tone cutting in and out. "Don't use _my_ goddamn—for— on— freakin' kid. Not for ridiculous stuff like—! _Christ."_

Bruce's head spun from the pain radiating at the tips of his scalp down to his toes, and he wanted to cry, but he didn't. He just pressed himself lower, lower to the ground, and waited.

When the glowing clock struck 12 and the little hand to 17, the door opened again. Bruce had been long asleep by now, curled still under his bed, but he woke groggily when two arms hoisted him up and pulled him close to a soft chest. The last thing he remembers before he leaves nervously excited as ever for school the next morning is his mother holding him tight, hiding them under covers and pillows and blankets until they're both just a universe of breathing, warmth and heart beats in Bruce's dream. Rebecca kisses her son's forehead gently, rocking him slowly, the softness of his cheek against the dark stain of purple on her cheek a touch painful, and cries.


	3. Drunk

**AN: **Fixed for typeos, because no matter how many times I convince myself it's a good idea, posting at one in the morning never is.  
**  
Summary: **This is not how Bruce planned the evening to go. No really. He swears.

* * *

He's never been too good with dates, be they the social term or the chronological, but for Bruce to mess up both at once, he thinks it a new record for "Bad Luck Banner".

His six month anniversary with Betty is disastrous.

At least, that's how he describes it, but Elizabeth Ross only laughs at the word, and Bruce manages an involuntary smile at her. He can't remember smiling so much for so long with someone before her. Hell, he can't even recall the last time he's allowed himself to spend so much time with one person before.

"I can't believe it," Betty smirks as she presses up against the physicist, hands holding onto the waist of his jeans, tugging at the belt loops. "I brought home a drunken man!" She tsks him playfully, a touch of her southern accent lining her amusement. "What would Daddy say?"

Bruce could only grin his stupid smile, imagining the hateful look he'd be getting from Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross. "He would never blame you. He'd probably say something along the lines that I'm some punk kid that got lucky on a few tests and really can't handle the world, deceitfully stole a good girl like you, and has no right to manhood because I can't handle my liquor."

The brunette woman laughs again. "Oh my God, he probably would say that, wouldn't he?"

"Probably best we leave out the part that we only drank champagne."

"It's a little funny though Bruce," She eyes him carefully, the faint line of her blue eye shadow shimmering softly over the lids of her crystal eyes, distracting Bruce in the orange flume of the lamp-glass-glow outside of her apartment door. "I've never seen you drink before."

"Ah," Bruce swallows drily, a hand scratching at his chin self-consciously, feeling the stubble there, and readjusting his footing to stop swaying like an idiot. "I um, really don't drink very often. But, I don't know, I just—" He stumbles, finding that he has to swallow again when he looks at Betty.

"What?" Her long, dark hair has curled tastefully at her shoulders throughout the night, no longer perfectly straight. A flickering thought passes by Bruce as he studies her petite frame and he watches his shadow linger over hers, surprisingly tall looking. "Do I make you nervous, Doctor Banner?"

"Nervous? You?" He lifts a dark eyebrow, the grin still plastered all over his face and he knows it's all too obvious that can't circumvent his feelings right now. "All the time."

"In a bad way?" Her voice drips alluringly, but her lips pout.

Bruce blinks, considering her words although he's thought about that answer for nearly half a year now. "You're the only kind of nervous that I'm happy to have, Elizabeth."

She gasps playfully, and the lamplight sparkles her complexion, lighting up her face in a hundred different colours—that, or Bruce seriously needs to consider sobering up. "My full name and everything, wow. You must be sincere. That, or you think you're in trouble."

Bruce braces an arm against the doorway and his skin is dampened by the sheen of the light rain fall just before the taxi brought them both down from the restaurant. His dark brown eyes glance knowledgably at her, and he chuckles into his arm. "Okay, now you're just putting words in my mouth."

"Am I?"

"All I know is that now I'm officially in danger."

"Of what, lil' ol' me?" Betty leans back into him, and strikes a mock pose of a southern bell, her eyelashes long, dark, and wet from the shimmer of water in the air between them.

Bruce stares at her for a long moment, chewing on the side of a cheek that he can't all the way feel, and Betty copies the intensity. It's slow, and a little bizarre, for some reason, Bruce feels like he could stay this way for the rest of his life.

"What I meant was," He finally says, slowly, using his tongue carefully to not mumble or mess anything up. "I thought I was in danger of falling in love with you. But, it's too late for that."

Betty's blue eyes watch him suspiciously before she bursts out into laughter. "Bruce Banner, you did _not _just tell me that you love me while completely intoxicated."

That smile that he can't let go of is back, stretching his mouth almost until it hurts—he can't let it go, not yet. "I know—I know that sounds bad—but you know why I drank tonight?"

Betty rises a thin eyebrow, but reaches down to take off her silver high heels—suddenly, as she rises up, she finds that Bruce has crouched down so that they're both huddled, low, eye to eye. She notices that the rain has washed out most of the dirt from the walkway, and it's almost as if they're standing on something beautiful looking in a city full of grime and metal.

Bruce swallows as the quiet over takes them both, stringing the words together in his mind, before he takes a step forward, slipping, and he has to throw out his arm to steady himself from not falling backwards and ruining the whole moment—but Betty's arm is there, ripping onto the sleeve of his black jacket. He smiles at her as if to pretend that didn't just happen, and breathes in deeply before he continues on quietly: "It's because…well, ah, I just wanted to tell you that. This whole damn night—well, not just tonight. For a long, long time now. But dammit_,_ if it wouldn't come _out."_

He shook his head, the dark brunet waves of his hair sticking to the sides of his face. "I have such a terrible time trying to…you know, talk. No, no, that's not it. It's…it's…Ah, I don't know. Just. I know that, when I'm with you—it's like I…" A hand covers his eyes as he stumbles over his great speech that he's been working on for about a month now. It's all out of his head now, tangled and mixed and lost within the churning of the nerves inside of his mouth, teeth, stomach, legs.

He chuckles at his own humiliation, unable to withstand whatever expression she might be holding. "You think I'm a disaster, don't you?"

Something warm covers the cold skin of his hand, and suddenly he can see her face again, close, inches from his own, and he draws back in surprise—taking them both down.

Sprawled out on the wet, pathway ground in her new dress, Betty just rests her forehead against his own. "Now who's putting words in to whose mouth?"

They're silent, and her blue eyes are just watching him patiently, and, through the stupid, happy, nervous haze, Bruce thinks he should say something striking.

"Did I just ruin everything?"

"Depends," Her royal flush of a smile returns with vengeance, and his heart does a slightly painful skip. "Are you still nervous?"

"You just caused me chest pain—does that account for physical symptoms of a panic attack?"

She pushes herself onto her knees, and begins the tumult of pulling Bruce unsteadily to his feet.

"You can be nervous about a lot of things in a lot of ways and they can still be good," Betty smiles leisurely, taking his hand, leading him through the darkened oak door of her humble flat.

She doesn't turn on any light, but Bruce has been here enough to not worry himself to cause even more damage to the night over details like tripping over a rug, or running into the couch. Besides, Betty still hasn't let go of his hand. They pass through the darkness together, her leading him gently, and she's stifling her own giggles. Her noises fly by Bruce's ears almost like a faraway echo, and he closes his eyes, struggling for a way to keep them from passing by so quickly.

Suddenly, she stops moving.

They both stare at the queen-sized bed before them, and Bruce stops himself from making a funny sound in his throat that he himself can't identify what it means.

Slowly, she turns to him, shifting his arms around her back until his fingers touch the cool layer of the zipper to her dress. She's warm in his arms—and Bruce holds her close to his chest, resting his head over the top of her soft hair.

"What do you think?" Her voice is soft, hopeful.

"I like that colour on your comforter. New Age—turquoise. Very post-modern."

She chortles into his chest, her shoulders falling and rising with the moment, shaking his frame with her emotion. "And…what do you think?" He repeats a little thickly, swallowing again.

"That you're the most brilliantly socially awkward man I know."

"Ooh," Bruce feints wounded pride. "I thought I hid that so well too. Way to burst my bubble, Bet."

They're both quiet for a minute, her hands resting along his waist once more. She runs a finger along the band of his jeans. "I love you, Bruce. You're just…so wonderful, you know that right?" Bruce glances down at her from behind his glasses. "Because…I've never met anyone like you. You're quiet, you're kind, you're hilarious. It's like; when I'm with you…I'm entering into this whole secret world that no one ever gets to see." Betty's head leans against his chest so that he can feel her mouth moving against him. "When I'm with you, I feel like I'm discovering someone very special—someone that'll change my entire life. You're the only person in this entire world that's opened my eyes to that kind of self-awareness. You make me want to be a better person, Bruce."

She can hear the quickening thud of his heart against her ear, so loud that she almost doesn't catch his response.

"Betty, I…" He freezes, his hand running through the long velvet curls of her hair. He's grateful it's so dark in her bedroom, because she'll never see the dark tiredness that passes over his expression. The screams of his mother, the burning eyes of his father, calling him _worthless, defeated, empty. _

_You make me want to be a better person_.

"I hope, one day, I can be that man you just spoke of," Bruce whispers into the darkness.

She cranes her neck to look up at him, his dark eyes captivating. "You're too hard on yourself." She squeezes him, arms wrapped around his waist. "That wasn't a guilt trip, silly." She pauses once more, and finally crushes herself into him, and suddenly they're both falling onto her bed. She's pinned him. The room spins violently for a moment, but he centers his eyes onto her face, and finds himself feeling more lightheaded than before. She lays across him, fingers finding his hand in the dark.

"I love you," She tightens her grip. "I love you just the way you are. And, even if you think you've changed into this—"greater man"—I'll love you just the same. You are who you are, Bruce. And that's always going to be what I see."

Bruce is speechless underneath her, waiting his head to stop spinning. It never does. He opens his mouth—a thousand words he wants to return, a thousand phrases, images, descriptions, emotions—words, words, words, words, words—the one thing he's so bad at, and all he can manage is: "I love you." He buries himself against her, afraid that if he lets go he really will start talking, and he'll rip himself apart. "I love you," He says it again and again.

They lay like this for what, to Bruce, seems like a lifetime. For the first time, he feels safe in his own skin—mainly because it's Elizabeth Ross's hands that are holding him together, and he doesn't have to work so hard to tighten his strings, to piece together his thoughts, to strengthen the will of his soul to not shatter for one more day.

She's here.

"Bruce," Her breath hums against his ear, soft lips resting over his earlobe. "Are you a virgin?"

He pauses, the darkness of the canopy from her ceiling leaving lingering layers over them, hushed, silent in the limited space between them, and her arms are still resting at the smooth leather of his worn belt. He thinks he's blushing, but in all honestly his heart is thudding far too loud in his chest to fathom another sense at the moment. He gives up trying to create some kind of smooth line, and sighs against her neck, warm and content with the social standard that at the healthy age of 25, he still hasn't broken.

"I am," He wavers his words, trying to express so much more than he knows how. "But yet I'm not."

"It's okay," She laughs breathlessly against him, kissing the collar of his shirt. Bruce shifts up, gathering her hands in his own, gathering her against him carefully. The long dark curls of her hair string across him, wavering freshly over the air between them with hints of rose petals and black lilacs and other flowers Bruce has never seen before.

Bruce Banner takes a deep breath, holding her hand, tracing his thumb along the inside of her open palm, and closes his eyes. In the darkness, there is nothing but the feel of their hands intertwining, and he counts: every dip, fold, crease of her skin, memorizes her hand, their bodies, this moment, just like it is. Suddenly, he opens his eyes, breathing out and collects her lips against his, hesitant, but giving—warm, open, understanding.

Their hands never part.

He's giving her so much more than something defined as "purity". Bruce knows he's seen too much and holds too many broken promises for words like "innocence", "family", and "commitment" to mean anything to his moral standard, or what was originally defined by it.

No. This is something so much more he's offering. Himself. Wholly, fully, without a step backwards, without doubt, without fear.

He is opening up to someone for the first time in eighteen years.

Her free hand leads up, underneath his shirt, laced around his neck, tugging at his hair, and out of rhythm for a moment, their foreheads knock together. His lips press a smile against her own, and he can feel the blush from her cheeks radiating into his pours, into his mouth; They pause, and she moves above him, held just out of his reach like some type of wisdom that he can only have for so long, her blue eyes genuine and flushed. She slowly kisses him fully on the mouth, and Bruce lets himself go with her.

She tastes like happiness.

She feels like home.

She looks at him like he's there in all his finality, and what more can he possibly do but give up all of himself in return for everything he's ever wanted?

Virginity? Please.

He's giving her so much more than that.


	4. After The Second Accident

**Summary: **After the Second "Accident"…

* * *

A vibrant coiling string of dark red wraps itself tight around Bruce's consciousness, pulling in from the dark with icy fingers that are ripping at his body, sparks of red that noose themselves around his joints, veins, finger nails, hips and tighten until he feels like he's being halved by thin layers of razors that never stop—_never, it's never going to stop—never going to stop—never, never, never_—he startles, rattling the metal bars to the sides of him, his eyes struggle open.

He's alone.

The worst part so far is the dreadful ache that manifests in his body, sinking into his bones, so powerful and raw that his fingers fly out to rip at the mental, and he _bends_ it without a second thought. His fingers coil uncontrollably, strings popping and sliding into his veins—the bed snaps. Bruce freezes, the bar within his fists, once cool and smooth, is nothing but a ball of twisted silver embraced into his red flesh of his hand. He glances at his other hand, and his eyes zero onto the needles stuck in his arm, the clear, soft tube laces around the stand of an IV fluids bag, staring through the opaque liquid, he only feels more _trapped._

He's in pain, he's in so much _pain_—can't anyone realize that? Doesn't anyone see? The doctors, the nurses, why do they keep doing this to him? _Why?_

The silver in his hand shatters against the title beneath the bed, and instantly his fingers rip at the tube, tearing it out so fast and so hard that blood starts to leak from where the once needles laid—Bruce's brows furrow—he's so tired of red, so sick of tasting red, seeing red, feeling red—that's when he opens his mouth to scream and the sound comes out as a long, guttural _growl._

His mouth quirks and he finds his body shaking with sweat, and the reverb of his growl slides past his tongue, growing with force—his fists ball into his sheets and he flings it off of him—the pain his in bones leaks, boiling his blood, and he feels like he's on fire—the cloth, the bed, the bars, the windows, the room—he has to get out. He has to leave. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now.

He lurches onto his bare feet, and the room sways with him. He throws out a hand to catch himself on the wooden side table but it snags on the blunt corner, and the red smashes into his brain—the table, strangely, no longer has four legs to stand on. It's in his hands, twisted and broken. Like the silver, it's at his feet and Bruce blinks slowly, opens his mouth again and his tongue is thick, useless, there's only a hollow, angry noise crying from his throat.

Words. He—he can't make proper words!—He cries, trashing out, pulling his feet forward as he staggers towards the dresser, towards a mirror—that's suddenly so large, so captivating that he can't look away. The door knob across the room is turning, and Bruce feels himself convulsing as he stands, his shudders forcing his shoulders to twist, and it's like every cell in his body is roaring for release. He finds someone else is staring at him from beyond the glass.

_Green?_

Bruce blinks, and now there's hair in his face, and he can't see—_God dammit, God dammit_—he curses, but the words aren't there anymore. Three more people in blue and white are in the room, running towards him at full speed, but to Bruce, everything is so frustratingly slow.

He rattles the dresser, shaking his head and yes, there he can see himself again and his eyes—his eyes are brown, red-shot—but something's wrong. Something's _wrong_—he lets go, shuffles backwards, away from the mirror, away from the man that's reflecting back at him, away from the hands that are touching him, the people telling him to remain calm and everything hurts, _why does everything always hurt?_

There's a sound of thunder in his head, and the man in the other backwards world before him has _green _eyes.

Then there isn't any pain anymore.


End file.
